Whispers
by Adishailan
Summary: They were little things at first, small like the small stream of pebbles down a mountain before the landslide hit. He was getting better in his simulations, he could dodge out the way of shots much quicker (almost too quickly) and sometimes he ducked down a good five seconds before an explosion came. And then there were the whispers... Or FN-2187 teaches himself to use the force.
1. Chapter 1

_**Okay, okay okay okay. I've been writing this since god knows when. Probably since the first film when I saw the trailer with Finn holding the lightsaber and got super excited about an ex-stormtrooper Jedi. Then I watched the film and it turned out he wasn't a Jedi. I still enjoyed the hell out of it but always had the idea of Force-sensitive Finn in my head.**_

_**(*Warning! Incoming SPOILER for Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker*)**_

_**AND THEN FORCE SENSITIVE FINN BECAME CANNON! Some other stuff I wanted didn't which is fine because I can make it happen here, but I was super stoked and decided I've sat on this fic for far too long. Hope you enjoy :D**_

* * *

It started with a whisper. He had been young when he first heard it. The hushed burst of words were so quiet that, had the sleeping pod bay not been entirely silent, FN-2187 never would have heard it. But he did. He heard it. And then he heard it again.

'P-please, please don't. Please don't make me.'

FN-2187 stared up at the plastic ceiling of his pod for a moment, brow crinkling as he tried to recognise that voice. Something about the tone of it seemed familiar to him, but he couldn't think of what it was. He didn't know the word to describe the heavy low tone of it turned to a harsh, high pitch, sharp enough to cut. But the sound of it was familiar. The feeling it gave… that felt familiar too. Twisting in the pod, he flipped onto his belly, shuffling towards the observation glass of his sleeping tube as he tried to catch sight of the one who spoke those desperate words. There was no one there. Silence encased the confined area he lay in, filling the green tinged darkness with the hushed, humming buzz of distant machinery and the quiet puffs of the air processors.

Eventually the darkness grew too heavy and FN-2187 lay back down, brow furrowing as he stretched out his limbs to fill the plastic space around him. EX-2999 had once told him to enjoy that while he could, that when he grew bigger he would hardly be able to sleep straight on his back.

"One size fits all, Eight-Seven." She had said to him with downturned lips but smiling eyes. It was a week after that, that EX-2999 was sent into reconditioning and he never saw her again. FN-2187 now always made a point of stretching out his limbs every night before succumbing to sleep.

The next few times he heard them, those whispers, it was night again. They always came in the dark, the loudest ones waking him from his sleep, shouting out things in a foreign tongue or pleading for something that FN-2187 could never give. It was from those scratching voices that FN-2187 learned of a whole host of new words and strange sorts of thoughts. Both the names of these thoughts, these feelings, and the voices they belonged to were unknown to him but they were still clear and burning for their weight. The quietest whispers he could hardly hear, but they were nicer to him, comforting and mild rather than bitter and harsh, full of what he would later realise was fear, hate and pain. He fell asleep to the sweeter ones, to the hushed sound of them, lulling him into soft dreams.

* * *

As FN-2187 grew, those voices grew with him. They became louder and clearer, and easier to recognise for it. They sounded like the FN squadron. FN-2187 wondered whether anyone else could hear them. Certainly no one talked about it, and the one time he tried to ask one of his podmates about it, they gave him the oddest look. It was only when he heard the voices outside of the dark that he understood what they were and learned to fear them.

He had just been coming out of one of the sanitation storage units when the voice tickled through his ears.

'This weapon needs a better noise dampener. It's impractical for stealth missions.'

He blinked again. Looking to his right, where the scratching whisper had come from, only to be met with the empty gaze of Captain Phasma's helmet as she made her way towards him, lowering her weapon to her side.

"Yes, soldier," she clipped out in a voice so loud and so deep that FN-2187 started to believe the voice had just been his imagination. And perhaps he would have continued to think that, had the voice not whispered again.

'FN-2187. Sanitation. Young. Good grades on his first simulation. This seems out of character... perhaps...'

FN-2187 swallowed down the words crawling down his throat, throwing out a salute, big chested and unwavering as he felt an unusual surge of gratitude towards the mask covering the fear on his face.

"Nothing Captain. Awaiting orders Captain." he clipped out, proud of how his voice remained somewhat steady and unbreaking.

'... Keep an eye on this one, his voice wavers...'

"Very well. Return to your duties."

"Y-yes Captain."

FN-2187 learned two things that day. One: he needed to learn to lie, and two: the whispers were real.

* * *

For a few days after this, he tried to convince himself that he was wrong. That he was ill or tired. It seemed easier than the alternative, that he had an abnormality. Illnesses could be fixed. Like when FN-2199 started to get red marks all over her face and arms or when FN-0038 started leaking from his eyes all the time. It was reported, dealt with and never happen again. Illnesses could be fixed. Abnormalities couldn't. FN-2187 did not want to be an abnormality. The problem was, once the whispers started in earnest, they did not stop. Instead they grew louder, clearer, and they surrounded him on all sides from dawn to dusk.

'If FN-2003 fails in our group simulation one more time I'm reporting him for something.'

'God I hate dealing with the small ones. Bet the old clone armies didn't have to deal with this. Lucky sods.'

'Why wouldn't that damn blaster work?!'

'Why do we have to do eat calcium bars, what's the point?'

'Has Zeroes been eating enough? How I can check without them noticing.'

FN-2187 looked up at that last one and quickly glanced across to FN-2199, who the whisper had come from, then to his right to FN-2000. She was blankly looking down at the ration packet in her hands. FN-2187 looked down at his gloved hands with a frown. He couldn't hear much from her, she wasn't really thinking about anything. That didn't mean he couldn't feel it though.

"Here Zeroes, let's swap. You like the vitamin pellets much more than the protein strips," he said, turning his lips up into a soft reflection of a smile he'd once dreamed of. Zeroes stared at him, then at the food being held out to her, then at him again. By the itching of his neck and sudden hush of thoughts around him, FN-2187 could tell the others were watching him too.

"Eighty-seven. What are you doing?" Asked FN-2119 in a quiet voice. "We're not supposed to share food. These are designed to give us all the nutrition we need, you cannot-"

"If split between more than one person, it won't make much difference," FN-2199 spoke up, halving his vitamin pellet portion and placing it on Zeroes's tray. FN-2187 felt his soft smile widen into a toothy grin, unlike anything he or any of the soldiers around him had encountered before.

No one spoke for a moment. Then:

"…H-here, Zeroes. Have some of mine too," FN-2003 spluttered out, staring at FN-2187 as he shoved a few of his vitamin pellets towards the surprised FN-2000.

"Okay," she murmured, placing one of the little dried balls in her mouth, thoughts a little clearer now for FN-2187 to hear. He smiled at her, at his squad-mates, and one-by-one found his smile reflected back at him.

They had to be careful. All too often FN-2187 heard thoughts like 2119's, that he was showing a little to much affection towards his teammates, that storm troopers shouldn't smile; thoughts that whispered he was starting to lead the others astray. They had to be careful. Or to put it more accurately, **he** had to be careful.

While it was hard, FN-2187 was getting better at disguising his voice, at holding himself still when necessary, at showing nothing but a blank mask. Unlike the others though, he would never become the mask. He would always sneak Zeroes her favourite food, he would always help pick up FN-2003 when he fell so often everyone started to call him Slips, and he would always smile beneath that mask whenever he could. He tried smiling without the mask sometimes; Slips and Nines liked seeing him smile most. They called him eighty-seven. They smiled when they thought about his teeth glinting white when he grinned, and of all the different ways to get him to do it again, and FN-21- no, Eighty-Seven liked it.

Everything felt better for a while. Eighty-seven felt like he had friends and, for the first time since he realised what the whispers were, he was happy he was abnormal.

* * *

Time went on.

The training was getting more intense. The FN squadron were getting older now, putting on more muscle and growing stronger. They were learning about more weapons, watching and reading more educational material on battles and their enemies, and being speedily moulded into the living weapons they were meant to be. There was less and less time for talking, resting and even eating. Food was to be eaten quickly and in silence so to fit in with the new routine. Zeroes no longer hesitated over her food, she was tired and needed the energy. Nines and Slips didn't share their portions anymore anyway. Eighty-seven tried once or twice but Slips quickly caught his hand and put the food back on his tray, thinking:

'Eighty-Seven needs to stop. Or someone will report him.'

Eighty-Seven tried to be subtler.

'Do I have to report him?' Nines thought.

Eighty-Seven stopped sharing his food.

The once warm tide of thoughts around him no longer lulled him to sleep at night. They were almost silent now, hushed and curled in on themselves. There were some thoughts that were too dangerous to think too loudly. Those who let it reflect on their face or in their actions didn't last long. The FN squad soon learned to keep their thoughts to themselves or, better yet, to not even think them in the first place. Eighty-seven kept on thinking though. He kept on thinking and hiding those thoughts behind his mask. When it looked like he was watching the educational videos on the evil resistance he was instead listening to the superiors wondering where they got all the actors from. When he looked like he was concentrating on his weapon training, firing shot after shot into the bullseye, he was instead thinking of how to get Slips safely through the next simulation. He looked like the perfect soldier, officer corps material maybe.

His mask was good.

* * *

As his body changed and grew in strength and size, Eighty-seven felt his abnormality change too. He could still hear the thoughts of others and feel their emotions often, but he was starting to notice other things. They were little things at first, small like the small stream of pebbles down a mountain before the landslide hit.

He was getting better in his simulations. Not that he wasn't always good, getting consistent top marks and stilted praise from his instructors. But now he was able to dodge out the way of shots much quicker, almost too quickly, and sometimes he ducked down a good five seconds before an explosion came. No one really noticed- he'd always had good marks- and when they did, well, Eighty-seven was the first to know and could easily fake a blunder to make up for it. It wasn't just the good reflexes though. He would have been okay with it if it were just that. There were other parts to it that were harder to define, harder to understand.

Sometimes, if he stared long enough, he could feel something surrounding those around him. Well perhaps feel is the wrong word as there was nothing to touch. It was more like an invisible blur, a faint hum too quiet to be heard but somehow still noticeable. It never seemed to have an impact or ever do anything. It was just there. After a while, he stopped thinking about it. It was on seeing FN-2119 shot through the heart after compromising the safety of the base through an error, that Eighty-seven started to understand the blur a bit more. He watched the dying storm trooper, barely listening to Captain Plasma as she spoke the words: 'example', 'lesson' and 'duty' to them. He just looked at FN-2119 as he writhed and contorted alone on the cold metal floor. He saw him gurgle out one last bloody breath, hands falling slack down to his sides. He felt the blur surrounding the man spasm and fade. He looked up and Captain Plasma was staring at him. She didn't say anything, but then again, she didn't need to.

'One to watch.'

Eighty-Seven thought about that blur a lot, mostly at night when he was alone in his pod, body packed tight into the confined plastic tube, unable to stretch out his legs any more but flexing out his toes regardless. He thought about the blur, how he had sensed it fade away and how everyone who lived had one. Then, slowly, he started to wonder if he had one. He shifted his arms slightly, squeezing his hands into the small space above his face, staring at the shadows formed by the green glow of the airflow monitor. He squinted at his fingers, wiggling the digits one by one, over and over. The hum wasn't there. He could feel no blur. He closed his eyes with a sigh, letting his hand fall to his brow. He felt the soft upturn to it, leading into his stubbly, short cut hair, his skin dry and clean under his touch.

Feel... It was about what he could feel wasn't it? Not what he could see. Eighty-seven took in a long, deep breath and drifted his hands just above the surface of his skin, feeling the warmth permeate the small slither of air between. He slowly pulled his hands up, focusing on that warmth, searching for the other sensation. Wait... was that-? Warmth surged through his chest for half a heartbeat before it abruptly vanished. Exhaustion pulled at his mind like a riptide. His breathing grew sluggish, his hands shuddered and brushed at his skin and the feeling was lost to sleep.

The next morning, it was almost impossible to wake but wake he did, bleary-eyed and clumsy, but ready to try again. Which he did. Not that morning obviously; he had work to do. He had to inspect the drains on the new training deck and remove a blockage, then he had to go onto the training fields, breathing in the cold icy air as he dodged through snowy pine trees and scaled the many different wooden obstacles. After that it was the daily simulation training, scanning for snipers and spies then acting as them in turn. And then to the simulator bay for yet another fighting simulation.

It was only when the sweeping shots of the latest propaganda film (Eighty-seven learned that word a month before when listening to his superior officers, and found it very useful) had finished that evening and he was allowed to clamber into his pod, that he let himself close his eyes and try again. He probably should have waited until everyone was asleep, till the lights went out but... he wanted to feel it. Last night, just for a moment he skimmed the surface and it felt like... it had **felt**. He just wanted to feel it again. But he didn't that first night, nor did he on the second or third. He almost felt it, so many times, then he'd grin, wide and toothy, and leap forwards with his mind only to have the feeling skitter away. In the end, he figured it out but not without some unlikely help.

The newest batch of storm troupers, the HJs, had arrived not a week ago. This hadn't really impacted on the FN troop that much, new soldiers never did. Each squadron was often kept separate from the younger ones until they reached a level of experience which could be useful for training purposes. But, with so many storm troupers on base, it was impossible to completely avoid encounters. Such as the encounter Eighty-seven had with HJ-1807 and HJ-1207 or, as they liked to think of themselves, the Sevs.

"It's not gonna work, Sev," came the voice of the taller one, tilting her helmet to the side as she holstered her weapon.

"Of course it will, Sev. We have smoke bombs right? How do you think they get the smoke in there?"

Eighty-seven slowed his stride, almost tripping over an ice encrusted knoll of grass as he looked over the training field to see the two cadets huddled over a smoking weapon.

They were so small... the tallest one would just about reach the centre of Eighty-seven's chest if they stood on tiptoes. The smaller one would barely reach his hips. Something about this fact made him pause, watching them with a strange feeling in his chest as the littlest one tried to catch smoke with clumsy, gloved hands. Their blur was a bit larger than everyone else's, a bit easier to feel...

"Your doing it wrong. Your fingers are too wide-spread, so the smoke escapes," the tall one explained, taking their companion's hands and moulding them into cups. "If you go too fast, if you squeeze it, the smoke will escape but if you just take a little bit and hold it gently... look."

Eighty-seven suddenly wanted to look too, to get closer and see that whip of smoke held in those small hands. He needed to. He took a step forward, and another, and-

"What are you doing soldiers?"

Eighty-seven jumped and saluted as one of the captains approached, but it wasn't him the captain was speaking to.

"This is improper use of weaponry runt," the captain snarled, wrenching the broken weapon out of the smaller Sev's hands and backhanding them.

There was a moment, just a moment, when Eighty-seven wanted to march forward and return that strike a hundred times over. Then the moment ended, leaving him cold. He had wanted to harm a superior. He wanted to hurt someone. He had never wanted that before... He turned on his heal and left, fighting down the queasy roll to his stomach and trying his best to ignore the sound of another ringing slap.

* * *

That night he thought about those two, he thought about that sound he heard and then he thought of the smoke. His hands drifted up across his frame, circling his chest as he thought. You cannot grab at smoke. You cannot cage it and expect it not to escape... but perhaps it can be held for a moment, and perhaps a moment is all that is needed. Eighty-seven didn't move his hands or close his eyes. He simply thought about this and felt. Slowly, achingly slowly, the feeling came. It was deep and strange and warm. It felt like… like he was wearing something worn and comfortable, but inside his skin. It was familiar like the beat of his heart was familiar but at the same time terrifyingly new.

It felt like peace.

His hands fell to his sides, his eyes staring at nothing and his breathing coming out slow and steady. The feeling faded and Eighty-seven realised water was running down his face. He wiped at it and held his hands up before him in the green tinged gloom, smiling at the soft glisten of tears on his fingertips.

* * *

Most of his nights after that were spent navigating around that strangely addictive sensation. It was hard and exhausting but his face would ache with his smile every time he succeeded. Slowly, most of his nights turned to all of his nights until, to Eighty-seven, the feeling of peace was as familiar as his own voice and almost as easy to achieve as breathing.

Soon, it only took him a few moments of focus to feel that strange calmness. It was incredibly useful whenever Captain Plasma gave him a spot check. His voice came out steady and inflectionless, just the way she wanted, while his mind calmly whirled with different ideas on how to keep the ruse going.

Sometimes, when he felt out his blur before going to sleep, he heard new, peculiar whispers. Quieter whispers, with echoes of images dancing behind his eyes. They were of strange things, different things. A child sat in a ship on a sea of gold, staring up at the sky with tears drying on her cheeks. A young man, face faint and faded, speaking of far off places and distant lands, smiling toothily at him before falling away. A grinning teenager with chains on their wrists, a short, wrinkled woman with a blaster by her side and poison on her lips, a forgotten man shouting out at the stars and beating down on the earth. So many people, some happy, some sad, laughing and crying in equal measure. Eighty-Seven knew now not to dismiss these images like he had first done with the voices. He had to figure them out, to learn from them, like he had learned from the thoughts of those around him.

There was one image in particular that kept coming back to him, one that worried him. A man in a mask, dressed all in black, standing before Eighty-seven, with one hand contracting and shaking and the other wrapped tightly round a strange, metal rod.

"-rce-" "-how-" "-ll join u-" "-asse-" "-rain y-"

And Eighty-Seven would jolt out of those strange visions with a gasp, sweat pouring off his face and body shaking. He wanted desperately to play off the dream-like-visions as just, well, dreams... but, by the storm of feelings stirring within him, he knew not to. They were a warning, just like the voices were a warning when he performed too well in drills or when Captain Plasma took too much notice of him.

Something bad was coming. He needed to be ready.


	2. Chapter 2

Gunfire blasted and explosions shattered the air and Eighty-Seven kept his cool, ducking down under a slab of rock for cover and yanking Slips out of the line of fire.

"Push forward the advance! Remember our mission: detonate the repeating blaster!" Nines shouted out, ducking down behind another boulder for a moment before jumping out and ploughing on. Eighty-Seven nodded quickly and jumped up, circling behind the rock and rushing to follow. He scrambled up the slope and made for the forest for cover only to stop when he realised Slips had fallen back, out of sight.

"Slips?" he breathed, spinning in place as he searched. "Slips? C'mon man, don't do this to me."

There! He stopped spinning, spotting Slips still stuck behind that boulder, panting heavily and pinned down by heavy fire.

"What's wrong?" Asked Zeros, halting in her charge when she saw Eighty-Seven's frantic hand movements.

"Sli -uh- FN-2003 has fallen behind. We need to recover him."

'This is a problem. He is compromising the mission.'

"We must go back and get him," Eighty-Seven urged her again.

"What's happening?" Asked Nines, dropping back beside them both. "We need to keep going."

"FN-2187 wants to go back for FN-2003."

'This is a problem. He is compromising the mission,' thought Nines, gazing dispassionately at Eighty-Seven.

"We cannot compromise the mission. We will keep going or we will be taken," Nines commanded.

"No."

Zeros and Nines were silent, simply staring at Eighty-Seven as he turned to look from one to another. In the distance, the humming bursts of phaser fire sounded, and the heavy stamp of boots echoed.

"...We have a mission," stressed Zeros.

Eighty-Seven shook his head disbelievingly. They couldn't just leave Slips behind. They wouldn't. He just had to convince them, to make them think and realise this truth. He took a deep breath and pictured that sense of peace in his mind, trying to keep his temper.

"We can't leave one of our own behind when we can save them. We won't."

His friends froze for a moment, simply staring at him. Then, as one, their backs straightened and they nodded.

"Rodger," said Zeros in a toneless voice.

"R-Rodger," said Nines in a slightly bewildered one.

"Oh. Uh. Okay then?" Said FN-2187 confused at how quick they were to agree before shaking his head and refocusing. "Right, I have a plan. Both of you are going to go in different directions and split the Republic's attention. FN-2000 you go right along the outcrop of boulders. Ni- FN-2199 you go left into the tree line. Stay under cover and use your blasters only to draw in attention and keep the enemy at a distance. I'll go straight in and get FN-2003 then we'll use your distraction to take out the repeating blaster."

There were no arguments this time, just a hint of hesitation in Nine's movements as he nodded and left.

No time to think about that, Eighty-Seven told himself as he slipped down the slope, ducking down several times and shooting at the enemy. None of his shots missed as he made his way to Slips, wrenching his friend up by the plastic scruff of his suit. There was no time to talk as he yanked his friend forwards and pushed him into running alongside him, blaster ready and trained to strike any who remained. Not many did though. There was a clear run, all the way to the republic bunker. Eighty-seven grinned, pulling out a grenade from his pack and priming it.

"Watch my back, Slips," he threw over his shoulder, moving forward at a run, ducking and dodging his way through the cover of trees towards the bunker. He could hear the distant sound of blasters, coming from both his right and left, but there was no time to process what those sounds meant as he hurled the grenade into the mouth of the base, just below the blaster cannon, and ran back.

The explosion that rocked the ground should have sent him sprawling but for his sudden decision to jump a split second earlier. Eighty-Seven landed on the floor with a metallic clang, blinking as the rocky terrain buzzed and glitched out of existence.

"Mission achieved," a digitalised voice echoed through the metallic hall.

Eighty-Seven looked around, smiling beneath his mask as he noticed his friends standing up from their crouched positions and falling in line. A heavy step sounded through the hall, Eighty-Seven looked forward, his smile dropping off his face like it was never there. He stood up, carefully holding himself still as Captain Plasma entered his range of vision. Sweat itched down Eighty-Seven's brow but he made no move to relieve the irritating feeling, not that he could with his mask in the way. Instead he focused his mind inwards, pulled in a deep breath and willed himself calm.

"...You have achieved your mission," Captain Phasma eventually stated, eyeing up Eighty-Seven's firm and calm stance.

Officer material? She mused.

Eighty-Seven registered that thought and almost felt his sense of calm waver. He had heard people muse on this before but never her. Never anyone who could actually make it happen.

No, not now, later. Think about that later.

"FN-2187. Your kill rate was the highest of the class and you came up with a plan on the spot that none of your team thought of." She didn't tell him he had done well. She didn't even think it. She was purely stating facts.

"The rest of you will be repeating this mission tomorrow. You are required to be up to standard for the upcoming inspection. Return to your duties. FN-2187 with me."

Calmness, peace, just focus, **focus**.

"This isn't the first time you have supported FN-2003 through a simulation. Why is this." She clipped out, intonation flat and hardly recognisable as a question. Nevertheless, Eighty-Seven answered it as one:

"A squadron must work together to achieve its goal," he spoke, forcing his fingers to keep still and his back to stay straight. "That is why we work as a team; we are stronger together."

"And a team is only as strong as its weakest link, soldier. FN-2003 is the weak link. You are not improving the dynamics of your squad, FN-2187, neither are you fixing a problem. You are merely allowing it to persist."

Eighty-Seven's breath rattled in his chest as he fought to keep his shaking hands from forming into steady fists.

"FN-2003 must stand or fall on his own. If he stands, the Order is strengthened. If he falls, the Order is spared his weakness. You will stop supporting FN-2003, soldier."

There was a silence.

"Confirm FN-2187, you will no longer be supporting FN-2003."

Eighty-Seven did not speak.

"I said conf-"

"Confirmed captain, I will stop supporting FN-2003."

* * *

Eighty-Seven did not stop supporting Slips. He would never stop helping a friend, but he had heard what Captain Plasma had thought about his hesitation. He told himself that he simply had to be more careful.

He couldn't ask the others to go back for Slips, he couldn't even go back himself, he just had to make sure he didn't need to. Nights were no longer just spent practicing feeling his blur. He spent hour after hour, when he should have slept, thinking up new tricks and manoeuvres to best take down the holograms before they could get a shot at his friend. When they were to finally be deployed, they wouldn't have the luxury of low wattage blasters. He had to get better.

Eighty-Seven watched other troopers, the ones who had come back from their missions with little to no injury and studied their movements. He found the last remaining members of the legendary B and C squadrons, who had lost limbs and blood and companions but were still going, and he studied their minds. His movements gradually became more precise, his shots more planned out. He started to subtly direct his fellow stormtroopers into shooting like him, always making sure that Slips was following his lead. Eighty-Seven did not stop to help his friend anymore. He didn't need to.

* * *

The whisper visions were getting worse. They were a nightly event now. It was almost at the point where Eighty-Seven wanted to stop his explorations of the blur but he didn't. A strange form of morbid curiosity ate at him; he had to know what is was all about. Every time the vision was slightly different, be it different words spoken, different actions taken or even being in a completely different place. He saw himself in the large metal hall of the training grounds, shaking as the figure swooped in, feet pounding on the hard, echoing floor as the figure reached out a hand to freeze him in place. He saw himself in black, flowing robes, with yellow rimmed eyes and gaunt cheeks, backing into a corner of a ship hanger, someone else's hand hovering above his throat, squeezing him but not choking him, a warning. Then he saw himself out on the training grounds, surrounded by ice and trees as he faced the figure, a broken, stuttering red sword in the man's hands as he turned to face him. And Eighty-Seven broke away from these visions, sweat heavy on his brow and heart fighting its way out of his chest.

It was on seeing the glowing sword, that he finally started to suspect who this person was. Who hadn't heard of the Jedi, of their famous sabres or of Kylo Ren? Kylo Ren, who was often on missions across the universe to discover and take down the Resistance pockets. Kylo Ren, the Jedi Killer. Kylo Ren, the Jedi Killer, who was coming back to the star destroyer in one month's time to select a new squadron. Eighty-Seven stared up at the plastic ceiling of his sleeping pod, heart throbbing dully in his mouth. Something bad would happen when Kylo Ren came. It felt... inevitable.

He needed to leave. The thought was foreign to him at first. Leave the first order? How? Really, how? The only way he had seen people leave was through a blaster and the cremation burner.

But what if there was a way? He would think as he ran through the forests, unconsciously jumping over traps and dodging projectiles.

Then how could no one else have taken it? He would argue back at himself as he fired round after round into the resistance cut-outs at the firing range.

Perhaps no one has really thought to leave before now. I've definitely never heard anyone think like this before. He mused as he scooped out the blockage from an officer's drains, only for all thoughts to quickly drop away as he realised the blockage was alive and covered in tentacles.

After dropping the slimy dianoga off into a nearby lake and going back to his unit to wash off all the ink (and after wondering how those stupid things kept getting into the pipes), Eighty-Seven suddenly realised something.

What about his friends?

Eighty-Seven blinked, staring as Slips pulled his vizor off and cleaned himself in the stall next to him. He clearly wasn't really thinking about much, but he nodded at Eighty-Seven when he caught him staring. No, Eighty-Seven wasn't going to just leave them. He couldn't. He... he just had to think of something else.

* * *

It was their first real deployment and, for the first time in a long time, Eighty-Seven could feel a sense of nervousness creeping over his friends. It was small and subtle, hardly a feeling at all, but Eighty-Seven took comfort in the fact that his squad were nervous in that moment as well. The ship shuddered under them briefly, twisting and turning to avoid the artificial asteroid field. Eighty-Seven closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of rocks pelting at the ship. Captain Plasma hadn't told the squadron what this place was called but that didn't matter to Eighty-Seven. He listened to the officers and wondered who came up with the name 'Pressy's Tumble' for a destroyed moon. Perhaps there was a story behind it, but if there was, the officers didn't know it. Captain Plasma hadn't sent them in with nothing though. All around Eighty-Seven, he could hear his friends and teammates thinking over the details of the mission.

'-duty-'

'-to restore order-'

'-Republic agents infiltration-'

'-our duty-'

'-mining operations compromised-'

'-dissent among the miners-'

'- do our duty-'

Eighty-Seven blinked and shook his head, trying to focus on something else, but the thoughts kept tearing at the fringes of his mind. He breathed a sigh of relief when the ship finally shuddered and docked onto the Mining Operations base, only for his sigh to cut short into a juddering gasp as the doors open and he saw what was beyond.

Pain, anger, chaos. Absolute chaos. Plasma weapons discharged like hissing fireworks, filling the vast cavern before them with light and screams. Fires roared out across the metal pathways leaving only rubble, bodies and the dark afterimages of explosions behind, and Eighty-Seven was marching right into the middle of it!

Calm, keep calm, keep- WHAT THE HELL?!

He stared, eyes screaming-wide beneath his vizor, as the living blurs of hundreds of people bloomed and burst around him, howling out thoughts as loud as the battle around them.

_'-eat fucking blaster you bastar-_'

'-Never Again! You'll Never-'

'-**od i'm gonna die here! Why did we think we could do this? Oh go**-'

'-why can't they just let us live free? Why-'

'-**DIE! YOU MONSTERS! DIE!-**'

He felt frozen, still, unmoving but for the fact that his feet were pounding down one of the many metal platforms crisscrossing across the dark pit below, along with the rest of his squadron, his body seemingly working on autopilot. There was so much. He felt so much. So many people. Their voices were in his head and he couldn't get rid of them, their vibrant and terrible feelings creating a thrumming ache that ripped through his mind. He stared at them, wide-eyed, all piled up behind overturned mining carts and heavy duty equipment. Their blurs were stuttering like the flare of a star, connecting like constellations, a galaxy of life, each of them different and beautifully terrifying...

**'There's more of them! fuck! fuck!'**

A blaster started firing, Slips almost fell as a chunk of rock went flying into his helmet, creating a large dent. Eighty-Seven grabbed him and hauled him behind a slab of broken metal sheeting.

"DOWN!" Bellowed Eighty-Seven. He had hardly any time to do anything but react as a whole barrage of shots swept down upon his squadron. He started shooting up his own weapon at the ground around the miners to create enough of a threat to push the attackers back under cover.

"MOVE! MOVE!" He ordered the stormtroopers, shoving at his friends' backs to push them out of range in time before the rebels started to attack again in greater numbers. It didn't take long for the firing to start anew but by that time he had moved everyone out of range. Well, as out of range as he could get them.

A wretched, desperate thought flashed to the forefront of the chaotic thrum in Eighty-Seven's mind and suddenly he was moving, wrenching up a loose piece of wreckage out of the debris around him (that by rights should have been too heavy for him to even lift) and hurling it with all his might in the direction of that horrifying thought. The blast created as the grenade hit the torn-up sheet of metal, threw Eighty-Seven back to the ground, his head slamming into the rocky surface. The world grew bright and ringing, causing him to squint and gasp as he tried to regain his bearings.

Without Eighty-Seven to take command, the stormtroopers scattered, their blasters flaring and creating streaks of fiery red and pulsing, bruised purple in Eighty-Seven's unfocused eyes. He tried to push himself up, away from those deafening sounds and painful light but quickly fell again as the ground trembled beneath his feet. Or were his feet trembling upon the ground? The sounds around him suddenly seemed to increase in volume, as did the sounds inside his head.

'-**NO! No no no no NO!-**'

_-ck they're all here!-_

'-**live a slave or die free. Well, suppose we never had much choice-**'

'-that's... too many-'

'They can't! I don't want to-'

'-**Where can we run? Where can we run?!**-'

_' d. ohgodohgodohgodohgod-'_

Eighty-Seven brought his hands up to his head, teeth gritted as the screams rang out and pleas hounded him from every angle. Just above that head-splitting cacophony, came a new sound. A whirling, whining, whistling sound of the heavy artillery jets. Hope flooded Eighty-Seven. The First Order must have decided the situation had got out of hand to send the jets as well. Surely the miners would stop fighting now! His smile quickly faded away though. He could hear the thoughts of those around him, feel the echoes of the rebels emotions. He was the only one that felt this hope. His squad! Where was his squadron?! He forced his eyes open and lumbered to his feet, ignoring the prickling black spots creeping into his vision and ignoring the way his head pounded and throbbed. He had to find where his friends went, he had to- had to-

Not ten feet away from Eighty-Seven, a large group of stormtroopers stood, guns ready and aimed on the group of rebels being led out from behind the barricade. He stood there, unmoving as he stared at the squadron. His eyes roamed over the dent in one of their helmets, Slips, the slender gloved hand of another, Zeros, and the towering height of one at the front, Nines.

…It was his squad.

Hesitantly, Eighty-Seven made his way over to them, closer and closer until he stood in their ranks once more, just behind Zeros and next to Slips. They were silent around him. Completely silent. Fresh sweat dripped down his cheeks, causing the mask to fog slightly and his vision to blur. There was a sound of clanking steps and the familiar voice of Captain Plasma giving out orders. Around him, all of the storm- all of his friends saluted with one hand, blasters still trained steadily on the rebels. Eighty-Seven's movements were an echo to theirs, slow and uncoordinated as he hurriedly raised his blaster into the correct position. Luckily no one was looking his way as he stood there, frame ridged and all sense of calm a thousand miles away. It was silent around him. He couldn't hear his friends. Why couldn't he hear his friends? It was by no means entirely silent in Eighty-Seven's head though. The thoughts of the rebels were ringing through it as clear as a foghorn, making him wince with their sheer volume. He stared at them, the men and women who kneeled on the rubble strewn ground, hands behind their heads and a range of emotions on their faces. One woman had tears streaming down her face but a smile on her cracked lips. A boy glared out at them with bloodied eyes but couldn't hide the shivers racking down his frame. An old man stared right at him, unmoving and unblinking as he simply awaited his fate. Eighty-Seven could feel all their blurs, loud and huge and somehow clean feeling, like fresh air flowing into a stale room.

"FN-2187, 2092, 2003, 2411, 1991 and 1340, you will accompany me. In line."

Eighty-Seven was slightly slower than the others as he followed, his pace uneven and steps stiff, but no one noticed. He followed on, past rebel after rebel, listening to their despair drenched thoughts, trying not to flinch at the sheer volume or the fear that underpinned each and every one of them.

**'They're- they're gonna kill us!'**

'Ishouldn' 'thavejoinedIshouldn'thavejoined.'

'What's going to happen now?'

_'The negotiators will save us. They'll explain...'_

'We should have listened to them. Waited. What's-'

**'They can't kill all of us. Who's gonna mine this place if they do?'**

'…We're going to die.'

The sounds of their thoughts grew distant, into a buzz of background static, as they entered a crude, metal plated building, backed up into a colossal stony wall, that loomed over a sea of rusted diggers and corroded drills.

The metal doors slammed shut behind them. Eighty- Seven was the only stormtrooper who turned at the noise as the other simply moved on. No one noticed him flag behind, not even Captain Plasma who was far too wrapped up in her own self-satisfied thoughts and numerous plans to pay him any heed. What these plans were, Eighty-Seven couldn't quite make out. His mind was still ringing with screams and pleas and the unceasing buzz of the hundreds of lives around him, all fearing their end. Realising he was falling behind in his distraction, Eighty-Seven jolted forwards and hurried to re-join his squad, the metal grid under his feet groaning with his pounding steps. He paid it hardly any mind, instead uneasily taking in Slip's steady stance as they walked through the barely lit corridors.

Eighty- Seven started to hear voices again, up ahead. They were quiet and they were worried but the fact that he could hear something other than the pounding of boots on metal, Phasma's sick satisfaction and his own ragged breathing, almost had him sighing with relief. The corroded metal door ahead of them slowly slid open and Eighty- Seven followed his squad as they formed a line in the front of the spartan meeting room, blasters held tight to their chests. A small group of men and women were gathered before a long wooden table, clothes neat but worn, and faces shiny with sweat.

"A-ah! Ca-Captain Phasma. We're d-dreadfully sorry for the miner's actions. We told them n-not to, well. Uh. Y- you've come to d-di-discuss the treaty with us?" One of the men stuttered out, walking forward with arms outstretched and hands unconsciously facing palm out. Eighty-Seven heard the whisper of thoughts echo through the room, quiet and hushed, as if the people who thought them were trying to squash them down.

'They won't negotiate with us.'

'We can strike a bargain.'

'They'll kill us.'

**'They won't hurt us. They need to reach a conclusion to this.'**

_'They need an example to be made for the miners.'_

'We can talk them round.'

**'I'm going to die.'**

"Squadron take position," called Captain Plasma, voice clipped and emotionless.

There was a sound of five weapons being charged and held up in unison and of one scrabbling to join in.

"S- surely we c-c-can come to an a-arrangement," the man squeaked out, looking from faceless mask to faceless mask, looking for some hint of mercy. There was none to be seen.

"Take aim."

'This is how I die?'

'I don't want to go like this.'

_'We failed them.'_

**'There must be something I can do. Think dammit! This can't be it!'**

'No! No! Please... no.'

Eighty- Seven's weapon lowered.

"Squadron! Open fire!"

_'NO!'_

Eighty- Seven never knew who screamed out that last thought but he would always remember it. Like he would always remember the unending volley of red shots, the men and women succumbing to the fire, some bodies falling listlessly onto the ground, some not. The image was seared into his mind of those desperate few who survived the first volley as they clung onto life even as their blood clung onto the walls. And how he would never forget seeing his friend, Slips, the man who had once helped him sneak food to Zeroes, who had laughed and grinned like a loon as he and Eighty-Seven play fought in the training fields as children, moving in front of him and blowing out a begging man's skull without a seconds hesitation. Silence rang out. Complete silence. Broken only by the distant sounds of the mining drills starting up once more. An acidic taste crawled up Eighty-Seven throat as he stared with wide eyes and heaving breaths at the bloodied room. His mask filter failed to block out the taste of iron in the air and Eighty-Seven couldn't help but choke on it. The stormtroopers turned and left the room, marching as one. Eighty-Seven didn't move. Phasma was staring at him. He could feel it.

* * *

Eighty-Seven watched the rest of his squad pull apart and clean their weapons by their ship. Around them, weapons were being recovered, rubble cleared and bodies piled up, ready for disposal. The stormtroopers continued to follow orders, not even glancing up from their weaponry as the occasional shot rang out, shattering the silence only for it to resume once more, heavy and cloying.

This was going to happen again, wasn't it? If Eighty-Seven stayed in the First Order, this was all going to happen again and next time he wouldn't get away with not firing his weapon. Next time Phasma wouldn't stop at a warning. You only ever get one. And that's if you're lucky. Eighty-Seven had to go. He had no more arguments against this left, no justifications, just… nothing. He had to go now. He attached his weapon to his hip and, forcing his gaze away from the stormtroopers around him, turned towards the docking platform. His eyes scanned over the numerous ships there until his gaze settled on the dusty blue hull of a T-70 X-Wing. He started to move and got as far as three metres before a hand pulled him back.

"Where are you going?" Asked the stormtrooper. There was a dent in their helmet.

Eighty-seven didn't say anything. He just stared at that dent, then down at the weapon held tightly at- at the stormtrooper's side. It took a moment for the calm to wash over him and for his voice to come out steady as he spoke.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The stormtrooper let go of his shoulder and straightened up.

"You're not going anywhere," he confirmed, voice inflectionless.

And this time Eighty-Seven understood. This time he felt the subtle change in the blur around him and heard the stormtrooper's thoughts echo Eighty-Seven's voice.

"… I'm right beside you, still repairing my weapons. You- you don't need to check on me."

"I don't need to check on you," the stormtrooper repeated with a nod. And with that, he turned, joining the others to continue the weapon maintenance, not looking back once. Eighty- Seven stared after him for a moment, unconsciously rubbing at his shoulder, before he turned and slowly walked away from the only life he'd ever known.


End file.
